


Nomad

by MadnessofVoid



Series: Sterek Week 2017 [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha and Emissary, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Other, Sterek Week 2017, The Hale Pack - Freeform, with scott and kira added in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 15:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12584724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadnessofVoid/pseuds/MadnessofVoid
Summary: “Please! You have to help! We were attacked by Hunters!”Stiles' blood froze at those words. Hunters. He hadn't once, that he knew of, encountered Hunters. They usually popped up when there were...Werewolves.Shit.





	Nomad

**Author's Note:**

> Final late fic for Sterek Week! Alpha and Emissary was...a them that was a pain in my ass. I actually had this multi chapter one for the theme, but it was stressing me out far too much. So I decided to put it aside and do this one instead. Which, in the long run, is good. The other one will be used for Sterek Bingo 2018 ;)

The Alpha never chose the Emissary.

 

Nor did the Emissary ever choose the Alpha.

 

It was sort of a “happy” little accident that was plopped down on the laps of each party by an unknown force, before said force darted off and cackled childishly. A good portion of the time, the Alphas got along with their Emissaries and vice versa. Other times...Alphas butchered their Emissaries over the most minor of things. And vice versa.

 

That's what Mieczsław Stilinski, Stiles to everyone that crossed him (and for good reason), always believed would happen to him since he was little. That he would be in the statistic of Emissaries that would die by their Alpha's hand, or be the one to come out on top. He had a motor mouth and biting sarcasm. Challenged everything, too. The village Elder always made comments about how Stiles would be slaughtered by his Alpha, if he ever found them, because he didn't know how to shut up and obey those in charge. Scoffed at him when he bothered to be etched in the traditional markings of an Emissary. Scoffed again when he received the Emissary piercings. The Emissary rites. The final Emissary training.

 

The Elder made Stiles know for a fact that he should not waste his time in being an Emissary.

 

Did a little jig when Stiles bought a cart and announced that when he came of age, he was leaving the village. Of course that jig died when Stiles also announced that he was going to be a nomadic Emissary. Which was a sin in the eyes of Emissaries. A _huge_ sin.

 

But what else was Stiles supposed to do? Wait for the annual Emissary-Alpha Gathering and possibly bump into an Alpha that would kill him? No thank you! Being a nomad was just fine! At least most people wouldn't want to kill him. If they did, he could easily make his escape. He wouldn't be bound to them and feel conflicted about fighting back, anyways.

 

So, on his eighteenth birthday, he grabbed his cart, took the old family horse Roscoe (because the poor thing was going to eventually kill over, might as well let him see the world before he did), and started his life as a nomadic Emissary.

 

Wasn't easy at the start. The first village was incredibly wary of him upon seeing his markings and piercings. The second chased him out. The third threw food at him and demanded he leave. There were a few bandits here and there that failed to rob him in his sleep. It was a rough few months.

 

Then, at last, he made his way to a little village near a massive lake. He was instantly swarmed by what seemed to be every single village occupant. For a moment, he thought it was a mob ready to chase him out. Instead, the woman in charge of the village eagerly shook his hand and asked for his assistance for a number of things.

 

“We can pay you handsomely in food, water, coin, and shelter for the night. Just please, if you are willing Mr. Emissary, help us.”

 

Stiles couldn't help but grin ear to ear before replying, “Where do I start?”

 

He lost count of the days he spent advising countless villagers on heavily important decisions, healing ailments, crafting items for said ailments to keep them healed, and doing Magic shows for the children. It was the first time he felt...appreciated. _Needed_. It caused an ache deep within he couldn't explain.

 

Eventually, he departed, not wanting to become too attached. He was given his spoils promised when he had arrived, and was sworn to that they would pass along the word of his services and good nature. (He had no idea where the good nature came from, but his ego will take it.)

 

And they didn't disappoint.

 

Upon entering his next village, a small child bolted up to him and inquired in he was the traveling Emissary that visited the lake village her cousin was from. When he said yes, she dragged him all the way to a fruit booth her family owned and announced his presence. As with the last village, he was there for countless days being an adviser to many, a healer, and entertainment for the children. Their favorite seemed to be when he created the wisps of creatures such as butterflies, foxes, and wolves.

 

And just as he had with the last, once Stiles felt he had over stayed his welcome, he said his farewells and departed with all the gifts he wasn't allowed to refuse.

 

Months went by.

 

Then years.

 

The entire time he traveled, he hadn't met a werewolf pack once. Which was expected. The chances of him meeting an entire pack while he moved place to place were slim to none. Packs tended to stick to once area – their territory. Only a Beta or two would ever leave to gather supplies if needed. They were never migratory.

 

Part of the reason why Stiles wanted to keep moving.

 

The more he moved – the less likely he could bump into his Alpha and be trapped. Then dead.

 

But his luck would have to run out sooner or later...

 

That day came when the rain howled right alongside the wind.

 

Stiles was just a day out of his last village stop, starting to regret his decision to leave. His cloak wasn't much of a shield. And creating an _actual_ shield would sap him dry of energy. So, here he was, pouting as he was being drenched in the downpour and listening to Roscoe whine.

 

“Hey! You like the rain, you big baby! I remember you standing out in a storm when I was ten! You were prancing about like it was the fucking festival and you were being handed apples from every corner!”

 

Roscoe whinnied back, not amused with being called out.

 

“Yeah yeah, you're old. I get it. But you would be going nuts if you weren't attached to the cart.”

 

Again, the horse whinnied. Shook his mane, too.

 

“Yeah yeah. I'll feed you a nice bushel of apples...when we come across them! I can't just make them appear out of thin air!”

 

A snort left the horse.

 

“Oi! There is a thing called equivalent exchange, ya old ass! Sure, it applies more to those weird alchemist folks, but it affects Emissaries, too! I could lose an arm by making your stupid apples appear out of nowhere! I happen to be very attached to my arms, thank you!”

 

He could tell Roscoe was about to make another argument. That damned horse was too easy to read. Then, suddenly, out of complete nowhere, Roscoe got up in his hind legs and let out distressed cries. Stiles yelped, clutching to the reigns for dear life. What was going on? What spooked Roscoe? Roscoe didn't spook!

 

His horse came down with a thunder, stomping the hooves and huffing furiously. In front of the upset animal stood a woman. She was drenched head to toe, her ringlets of blonde clinging to her face. Her deep brown eyes were wide with panic and desperation. Especially when Stiles made eye contact.

 

“Please! You have to help! We were attacked by Hunters!”

 

Stiles' blood froze at those words. Hunters. He hadn't once, that he knew of, encountered Hunters. They usually popped up when there were...

 

Werewolves.

 

 _Shit_.

 

Noticing her clothing now, seeing the Triskele symbol on the sleeves of her jacket and the stump of a Nemeton and its roots on the entire of her tunic...this woman was a _werewolf_. And not just any werewolf, but a member of the ill-fated Hales. The infamous pack that once held so much power and respect...burned to the ground in one night. He had heard whispers of one surviving, being cursed with the title Alpha, and wandered around as an Omega.

 

If this woman was wearing the Hale symbols...the Omega Alpha was no longer alone.

 

“Please!” the woman begged, rushing up to his side with no thought of her own safety in the face of a horse that was more than willing to stomp someone to death if he thought Stiles was in danger. “You have to help! You're a traveling Emissary, right? The one all the villages talk about? You know how to fix a Wolfsbane wound! R-right?!”

 

He should leave. He should snap the reigns, make Roscoe move forward, and never look back. If he stayed, the Alpha of this person could be the one that caused him to become bound and...probably eventually dead. Because he didn't follow authority. Always challenged it. And Alphas _commanded_ obedience.

 

He should leave. He should leave. He should leave.

 

With a deep sigh, Stiles flexed his hands and steeled himself. “What are the symptoms? Knowing them will help me know what brand of Wolfsbane I need to help reverse the effects.”

 

The woman brightened, a look of relief sweeping over. “There are black veins stemming from the wound, he's puking black blood, he's paling -”

 

“Oh yeah. I know which one it is. Where is the wounded?”

 

She pointed into the trees, her body poised to launch herself into said direction.

 

“Hop on. I'll drive – you direct.”

 

She hoisted herself up without argument, immediately giving him orders. He snorted, directing Roscoe and making a note to give her hell once the Alpha was fixed.

 

It didn't take long to reach their camp. It was a ratted tent, the symbols of the Hales fading from the fabric, guarded by a rather broad and tall fellow with piercing eyes glowing gold. He tensed upon seeing Stiles and his cart approach, but eased when the woman leaped off and rushed into his arms.

 

“He's the traveling Emissary we've heard so much about! He can help Derek!”

 

The man nodded, still flashing his eyes. Almost as a threat to try anything. Stiles rolled his eyes, jumping down from his seat and rounding around the back of his cart.

 

“I'm not going to do anything, Beta. I have nothing against werewolves.”

 

The man was still not convinced, but the woman nuzzling against him did help temper him down. Stiles rummaged through the contents of the cart, muttering curses to himself. Normally, he didn't have to worry about Wolfsbane poisonings. They were rare and usually only among wolves. And since Stiles hadn't bumped into wolves really till now, he didn't have anything right at the top of his contents.

 

Finally, he found it, shouting in triumph. He hurried over to the tent, surprised he was allowed in. Once inside, he saw four more Betas huddling around a mound under tattered blankets. All but one were male. The only other female there appeared to be a rare one indeed – a child of the Islands. She also didn't have the aura of a wolf, but of a fox. A Kitsune among werewolves...odd. She was also the one that appeared the most distressed, which became overwhelming joy when she saw him.

 

“You're here to help Derek!” she chirped with excitement.

 

“What is he?” whispered the male with the crooked jaw.

 

“Someone who likes tattoos and piercings too much.” huffed the male that reeked of overconfidence.

 

“He's an Emissary, you idiot.” deadpanned the rather angelic looking male. “Great job finding one, Erica.”

 

The woman from the road, Erica, squeezed into the tent with the broad man, ushering Stiles urgently forward. To the lump under the tattered blankets. With a gulp, Stiles waved her off and approached the lump on his own. His hand trembled as it hovered over the blankets. If he did this...he could become face to face with the Alpha that would end his life. If he didn't, well, the Betas would likely end him themselves. He exhaled deeply, preparing himself. This was it...no turning back now. Death...here he came.

 

He tore the blankets back with a little more force than needed, and...

 

His breath was stolen. His bones vibrated. His eyes glowed the all too rare turquoise. His right hand, the one left bare, began to sting and tingle. His other markings lit up with faint glows of red and turquoise. The Nemeton markings on his forearms rippled across his flesh. Everything in him screamed, sang, sobbed.

 

Alpha.

 

This deathly pale man lying before him, breathing labored and face contorted in agony, was the Alpha.

 

 _His_ Alpha.

 

“Shit...” he breathed, scratching at his right hand, which he knew was stitching in the marking of the Hales. He worried at the double hoops on his lip, fighting back the urge to whine. “Where-where's the wound?”

 

The crooked jawed male lowered the blankets more, revealing an arm festering with oozing, black blood and veins to accompany it. There was a faint billow of light blue smoke rising from it. Also, an arrowhead. Great. Double the work.

 

“I need two of you to pin him down at the shoulders. I need two more of you to pin down his legs. Then the final two will hold him down around the midsection. Don't sit there looking like fish! Chop chop! The longer you sit, the closer to death he will be!”

 

The Betas scrambled about, hurrying to do as told. The women held down the Alpha's midsection, the crooked jawed male and the angelic male held down the shoulders, and the broad male and overconfident male held down the legs. Once he was certain that they had firm holds, Stiles brought out his knife, carefully digging at the wound. Had to get the arrow out first. Immediately, the Alpha roared and thrashed about. His eyes opened briefly, revealing a kaleidoscope of greens and golds, before screwing them back shut.

 

“Hold him! I have to get the arrowhead out before I can revert the poison!”

 

The Betas grunted, struggling to keep their Alpha pinned. The Alpha attempted to bolt upright, snapping his fangs at the Emissary. For a moment, he saw his life flash before his eyes. But he steadied himself and sent out a wave of powerful Magic into the Alpha's face. The Alpha sputtered and fell completely onto his back, his face scrunching up in agony again.

 

“You stay down! Snap at me again and I'll turn you into a toad! Then I'll leave your furry ass on the side of the road as you die as a fucking toad!”

 

The Alpha gaped at him, utterly gobsmacked that someone dared to challenge him. His eyes darted around, taking in the disheveled form of the Emissary. There was a flicker of red, meaning his senses and fate caught up to him. A shaky gasp rasped out of him and his unreal eyebrows nearly rose behind his sweaty, inky mop. Stiles licked his lips, scowling in frustration that now the Alpha knew that this was the pack's Emissary.

 

“You want my help?” Stiles gritted out, trembling from the combination of the coldness of his clothes and the stupid fate connecting him to this stranger. “You hold the hell still. Got it?”

 

The Alpha continued to stare, as if in awe. Or the poison was making him loopy. Either way, he ceased struggling. Which made it all the more easy for Stiles to dig into the wound. The Alpha still screamed, each one more hoarse than the last. It took some time, but Stiles did get the damn arrow out. It hissed and sizzled, blue smoke swirling from the tip.

 

“One issue down...”

 

Stiles grabbed his mortar and pestle, tossing the weapon piece into it and crushing it down. The Betas wrinkled their noses, offended by the smell.

 

“This smells better than the rotting your Alpha is smelling like right now. Suck it up.”

 

He grabbed the pouch he brought with him, dumping the contents. He crushed it up as well, a floral smell rising from its meshing with the arrow. Once it was all crushed down to nothing but powder, he dabbed his fingers with it and scooted closer to the Alpha.

 

Who was not doing good whatsoever.

 

“Lift his shirt!”

 

The broad Beta obeyed, bumping aside the overconfident Beta. He lost color in his face upon seeing the jagged veins crawling up his Alpha's chest. Inches away from the heart.

 

“Shit. Okay. You, right hand Beta, what's your name?”

 

The broad man blinked at the Emissary in shock. As if the idea that he was the right hand Beta was something he didn't comprehend. He recovered quickly, swallowing and attempting to regain composure. “Boyd.”

 

“Boyd? Okay. I need you to hold the arm where the wound it. Hold it near my face and hold it tight. It'll freak out the poison and halt it for a short time. And I mean _short_. Your grip is crucial to our time. Understand?”

 

Boyd nodded, determination suddenly making itself known.

 

“Good. Grab his arm. Now!”

 

Boyd wasted not a minute. He grabbed his Alpha's arm, nice and tight, and held it right up to Stiles' face. Mmmm...yep. Nothing like the smell of rotting flesh, floral stuff, and mud from the rain in the evening. Delicious.

 

Stiles choked down bile as he dug the dust into the wound. The gags from the others didn't help. Just wanted to make him puke more. And he had to get every last inch of dust into the wound.

 

It was _tortuous_.

 

There was a loud whoop of triumph when he got it all in there. Followed by the order, “Break his finger.”

 

Boyd jerked back, startled. “What?”

 

“Break his finger. Trigger the healing.”

 

“Oh, Goddess, please don't...” whined the overconfident male.

 

“You may not like being a part of this pack, but I do.” snapped Erica. “Boyd...break Derek's finger.”

 

There was a hesitant pause, Boyd's dark stare landing on each individual, before he took a deep breath and...

 

_**SNAP** _

 

The Alpha arched upward, screaming in pain. Stiles batted away the hands of the Betas, motioning for them to give their Alpha space. They didn't want to, but they obliged, huddling their bodies behind him. They watched the Alpha writhe about, moaning and grimacing. He did this for some time, causing the air in the tent incredibly uncomfortable. Roscoe whinnied from outside the tent, even.

 

Finally, after what felt like centuries, the Alpha stopped writhing. He laid there, staring blankly at the roof of the tent and panting roughly. The Betas whimpered. The Kitsune didn't, but she was pouting and looking between Stiles and the Alpha. After some more time, the Alpha calmed some more. He sighed and closed his eyes. The arm that had been inflicted was flung over his eyes, showing off that it was healing up quite nicely.

 

Stiles didn't need to stroke his own ego but...damn, he did good!

 

“You. Emissary.” came the Alpha's voice, a lot softer and lighter than expected, since his overall appearance screamed of someone terrifying. “Who are you?”

 

Great. _This_ part.

 

Stiles licked his lips, curling inwards as he realized all eyes were on him now. “Um...the easy name or the hard one?”

 

He could tell from the movement of the nose that the Alpha was confused by the question. “Both?”

 

Stiles inhaled, wincing ahead of time. “Mieczsław Stilinski. I prefer Stiles.”

 

“I can see why...” muttered the angelic looking male.

 

“What the hell kind of name is _that_?” scoffed the overconfident Beta.

 

“It's from the Western Lands!” chimed in the Kitsune. “I've been there! It's so green! Not that much water, though...”

 

“My mother is from there.” Stiles confirmed with a shrug. “She migrated over to an Emissary village when she was discovered to have the abilities of one. Turned out she was just a mere Witch.”

 

“And you aren't a Witch?” the overconfident one scoffed again.

 

“Obviously he is not.” Boyd deadpanned.

 

There was a low rumble, silencing the Betas. All attention fell right back to the Alpha. His arm was now across his forehead – eyes boring right into Stiles' The Emissary swallowed, sweating a little. The kaleidoscope gaze fell onto his right hand...and he knew what was going to be asked before it was even out.

 

“It's on your hand...isn't it?”

 

Stiles swallowed again, not bothering to delay the inevitable. Was hard to now...

 

He lifted his sleeve, revealing the Triskele embedded into his skin in dark ink. The others gawked at it, whispering rapidly their questions of why and how. The Alpha stared with no emotion. Supposedly. His eyes told all. They reflected a mixture of bewilderment, guilt, excitement, relief, and unbridled happiness.

 

“Guess I can't be the nomad Emissary now, huh?” Stiles joked awkwardly, attempting to lighten the mood.

 

_Guess I'm going to eventually be killed by you too...huh?_

 

The Alpha snorted, rolling onto his side with a flinch. “We're nomads. No place to call home. We do favors for any village that will take us. You'll still be the nomad Emissary. You just have a pack now.”

 

That took Stiles aback. No home? Nomadic pack? That was...that was unheard of!

 

Then again, with what this Hale had been through...

 

“I'm Derek Hale. That's Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Kira Yukimura, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittmore, and Scott McCall. Boyd is usually my right hand, but I suppose you two can share.”

 

“Since when was I your right hand?” Boyd grumbled.

 

“Erica is our scout and distraction. Kira is our other scout and first defense.”

 

Huh. That little fox was their defense? Then again, Kitsunes were known to be full of surprises.

 

“Isaac is our trader. Jackson is our tracker. And Scott is our peacekeepper. You'll have to share that with him, too. If you stay.”

 

Wait...if he stayed? He was being given a choice? He could have a choice?! No...no, that made no sense! Once Emissaries met their Alphas, they were bonded for this life and the next!

 

As if reading his mind, the Alpha, Derek, shot out a chuckle and rolled his eyes. “You aren't bonded. Not really. You can leave whenever you want. I can dismiss you if I want. The bond forever tale was told time and time ago in order to prevent Emissaries from leaving or Alphas kicking them out. Cruel lie, isn't it? Could've saved lives if the truth was out...”

 

Stiles nodded, pondering that over. He could leave. He had a choice. He wasn't bonded. He could leave. He didn't need to be in charge of being a mediator between this pack and anyone else. He didn't need to worry about anyone. He could go back to what he was doing and that would be that.

 

He could be the lone, wandering Emissary again.

 

“Well...I'll stay tonight. Wait till the storm has passed.”

 

Derek smirked, something knowing in that brief flicker of red. “That's fair.”

 

That night, Stiles was smothered in a pile of, in a word, puppies. Derek being the most clingy. For someone who just met Stiles, an utter stranger despite whatever it was they felt when they realized who each other were, he sure liked to make sure that the Emissary was tightly curled against him. Wasn't bad, per se. It was actually real nice. Feeling needed. Wanted. Protected. On the other side, Scott was inches away from him. Followed by Boyd and Erica above his head. Isaac and Kira by his feet. Jackson was the only one being as far away as possible.

 

If this was how a pack felt, the complete opposite of what he was taught...

 

He convinced himself he would give them a try. See if he enjoyed their company. If he didn't within a few weeks time, he was gone.

 

Scott talked his ear off, excited and a bit naive about the world.

 

Kira was bright eyed and fun, loving spoiling the hell out of Roscoe.

 

Boyd was stoic, but he would crack a grin here or there whenever he would back Stiles up in something sharp and sarcastic.

 

Erica was a spitfire, holding her own in any debate with Stiles or anyone else.

 

Isaac was all casual snark, which was irksome at times but at other times it was quite useful.

 

Jackson was a royal pain in the ass, but he did have his moments. Despite not wanting anyone to know.

 

Derek...Derek was the complete opposite of what his appearance gave off. He was highly intelligent, had immense knowledge on every little Emissary item that Stiles knew, incredibly loyal, harsh yet had an underlining softness to him, spoke sometimes with only his eyebrows, had startling wit and snark, a heart of pure gold, was handy with carpentry, and when he smiled his eyes crinkled. He also had an adorable laugh, when one could get him to laugh.

 

In the end, after several villages (Which allowed them in only because of Stiles' reputation. You're welcome, Derek.), Stiles decided that he was going to stay.

 

Besides, if he had left, things would become boring!

 

(The thought of Derek kicking himself over Stiles leaving, moping and wishing that Stiles was there just so he could map out the tattoos not so unconsciously whenever they were beside each other didn't sway him. Nope! Not one little bit!)

 

(Okay...maybe a little...)

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out the event!
> 
> http://sterekweek2017.tumblr.com/


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